


Of Mages and Men

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Boys Kissing, Fluff, High School, M/M, MMORPGs, nerdy Cullen, theater kid Dorian, they're married in the game and then meet in real life by accident, underage sex sorta towards the v end, we won't get there for a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off this tumblr prompt I'm pretty sure I got like two months ago whoops:</p><p>Cullrian Modern AU: Cullen plays on an mmo and has a crush on one of his companions he plays with a lot who turns out to be Dorian, they're best friends IRL and Dorian likes him too in game, (plus they're married in the game!) but neither of them know that the other plays the game. ++++ They discover they both play in this mmo and go play next to each other at Dorian's place because he has internet and notice the characters and start making out getting a total party kill during a boss battle</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So what started as a small idea spiraled into like 10k, so I decided to break it up into digestible pieces whomp. I changed things a bit from the prompt, and I'm sorry this took so long??? I'm so bad when it comes to getting to prompts because, well, what starts as a 1k fic turns into like 10k whooooops.
> 
> I hope you enjoy though and I'm pretty much just AU trash, aren't I? Hm. Well. Unbeta'd, so feel free to point out any glaring mistakes or if it's just generally stupid.
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated and loved! :D
> 
> P.S this is trash this is all trash this is the dumbest thing I've ever written and also I'm not creative and I named theIR MMO DRAGON AGE

He wakes up before his alarm. He always has, always probably will. It was ingrained into his psyche to rise along with the sun, ever since he was a child, even. Cullen rolls over underneath the cocoon of covers that have coalesced around his legs and torso, stretching them off into an artfully crafted lump at the end of his bed. He swings his legs over the side with a content yawn and clicks the alarm clock off before it even has a chance to sing its metallic song. In fact, Cullen can’t even remember the last time the thing went off-- or if it even works. Perhaps he should check some time.

He saves that train of thought for another moment though, a moment where he isn’t supposed to be gathering his wits for high school along with notebooks and homework and clothes that don’t solely consist of boxer briefs with rocketships on them (They were a gift, he swears, though, that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy their colorful design.)

Cullen goes through his morning routine with ease (much to the vocal dismay of his three siblings who fare much worse in the early hours), and with a quick breakfast of cereal, he’s really all set. Which is why he sighs as soon as he steps upon the gritty staircase of The Yellow Demon. The voracious student guzzler of academia. The school bus.

He nods politely at the driver before the doors hiss their hellish lament as they shut behind him, and Cullen shoves up his glasses and pulls his backpack tighter while searching for a seat. The beast lurches beneath him like an angry dragon before he can settle, and he ends up crashing into the lap of some poor soul who brunts the full of Cullen’s weight.

“Shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry,” he hurries to say, steadying himself with a hand on the seat. The boy gives a sigh, arms folded as he looks up at Cullen, sliding over reluctantly with a wave of the hand. Cullen resigns himself to his fate and sits down. He squints at the sharp profile; smooth brown skin and a sharp nose, accentuated with dark hair and darker… Maker, was that eyeliner? He peels his eyes away like stickers off a binder when he’s slammed with the realization of who it is.

“It’s quite alright. I can hardly blame your lack of coordination when it’s apparent our bus driver cares more about getting a paycheck than ensuring we arrive safely.”

None other than Dorian Pavus flashes him a smirk, legs crossed with his own bag on his lap. The boy is immaculately dressed in a sweater and dark jeans, a copy of (and Cullen really has to refrain from rolling his eyes or snorting) Hamlet in his lap. Dorian Pavus whose parents only send him to public school because it was rumored he'd gotten expelled from his last three private schools for “disorderly conduct.” Dorian Pavus who was heralded already as some kind of rising theater prodigy and had snatched all the lead roles the school offered.

Dorian Pavus who would never, not ever, go out of his way to talk to someone like Cullen Rutherford.

Cullen Rutherford with his sloppily maintained curls, thick-rimmed glasses, and hand-me-down flannel, clutching tightly to his backpack filled with textbooks and dog-eared Lord of the Rings novels and his paperbag lunch with a note from his mom tucked inside. He shifts a little closer to the edge of the seat, careful not to bump knees with Dorian who still watches him like some kind of rare creature on display. (Or, well, maybe more like a normal person who wonders why Cullen is suddenly sweaty with lips pressed thin, but, Cullen allows himself the dramatic indulgence just this once. He chalks it up to his anxiety.)

They spend the rest of the ride in silence, both boys on their phones, tapping away. The one time Cullen dares look over at Dorian, he sees the boy smiling at his phone, keyboard clicking out a message with quick hands. Probably a girlfriend or something, he figures, eyes slipping back to the phone in his lap.

As soon as the bus sighs to a halt, lurching once more to signal the end of the stomach-churning journey (until 2:15pm, that is), Cullen bolts up and hurries off the bus and into the building along with the rest of the herd of students. He wastes no time in escaping from any potential humiliation that may loom before him-- a skill he has honed very well since the Frog Fiasco of 7th grade, thank you. He would never really be able to trust Sera’s word after that-- or forget the smell of warmed frog guts on his face. That’s just something that never really leaves you. Ever.

Cullen shakes the thought loose and focuses on what’s in front of him, deft fingers working the combination on his locker as he hears a familiar groan sidle up beside him, picking at their own locker. Cullen dares to peek around the door of his locker at the shock of red hair and freckles, Alistair rubbing a hand across his drowsy face as he stares at the combination of his lock like it were Death himself challenging him to a round of chess-- or, well, in Alistair’s case this early in the morning, probably rock, paper, scissors. Maybe even a thumb war. Staring contest?

“Not a word, Rutherford,” Alistair warns, but his voice, though thick with sleep, holds a musical amusement to it. Always ready for a joke or a sarcastic comment or some awkward combination of both. To say Alistair’s mouth had gotten him in trouble a few choice times would’ve been an understatement, but, the boy was kind and he offered good company to Cullen (when he wasn’t being a persistent pest), and hearing him wax poetic about the Cousland girl during lunch always made Cullen’s lips twitch up into a sly smile. Josephine had tried to make a bet with Cullen about it, but it proved fruitless when they realized they were both on the same side of the matter.

“We can’t all be shining golden boys at bumfuck o’clock in the morning,” Alistair says around a yawn. He manages to open his locker and shove books in and slide books out, tumbling in a disorganized heap into his backpack. Cullen snorts.

“You know, if you just did your homework when you got home, it’d save you quite a bit of time.”

“Oh yes, let me just be a shining exemplar for academia like Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” Alistair mocks, but there’s no malice behind it. If anything, he’s making himself look more ridiculous-- hair stuck up in tufts and crunchy with gel, hands gesticulating wildly. “Let me do all my homework before dinner-- where I eat all my vegetables, of course-- so I can respectfully go to bed at eight o’clock.”

Cullen rolls his eyes.

“You know just as well as I do that I don’t do that.”

Alistair snickers, slamming his own locker shut.  
“I know, I know. You stay up all night with your video game boyfriend. Chatting away, slaying monsters, typing sweet, virtual nothings.”

Cullen drops his math textbook on his foot.

“He’s not-- we’re, it’s just a game, Alistair.” He leans down to retrieve his textbook and hits his head on the locker on the way up, muttering a quiet, “Ow,” under his breath.

“You’re married to him. In the game,” Alistair continues without missing a beat. He closes Cullen’s locker for him as they both hike up their backpacks and walk to homeroom.

“Well, it was a… beneficial marriage. For the characters in the game. Lots of economics and such.”

“Beneficial for the economics of your dick.”

“Alistair. No.”

Alistair snorts at Cullen’s reaction. He opens his mouth to say something else, but, thank the Maker, Mrs. Trevelyan gives them both a stern look that quickly dispels any words. They settle into their seats and wait, in blessed silence, for attendance.

  
  


At lunch, Cullen settles at the end of the table with Josephine and Leliana, each giving him a grin or nod as he sits.

“How’ve your days been?” Cullen asks, pulling out a sandwich and some carrot sticks. He glances at the note his mother left him and clears his throat, stuffing it back into the bag at the girls’ snickering.

“Good, good. Got an A on the International Politics test.”

“Josie, you always get As,” Cullen laughs. He nods at Alistair as he joins them, suspiciously quiet as he stares off into the distance.

“Cousland got your tongue?” Leliana asks, not bothering to hide her smirk. Cullen and Josephine turn their heads to follow Alistair’s line of sight, both smiling to themselves.

“I don’t understand, Alistair. Why don’t you just go over there and sit with her? All this pining and staring is getting a little… unsettling.”

This snaps Alistair into focus, the familiar spark in his eye returning. “Just… just sit with her, Josie?” he asks incredulously, as if Josephine had just suggested he strip naked and declare his undying love right here in the cafeteria. “That’d be like Cullen just marching up over to--” he glances around, looking for a target. “him! That guy over there, and just sitting there. No explanation. ‘Oh hello mind if I sit here, stranger? Am I taking somebody’s seat? Well too bad because it belongs to my ass now.’”

Cullen follows the direction of Alistair’s hastily flung arm with a squint before his eyes go wide. It’d landed on Dorian Pavus no less. He’s leaning on the table with an elbow propping his head up, watching with wry amusement as a (very well-dressed, mind you) dark-skinned girl says something. Cullen idly wonders if that was who Dorian was texting this morning, that secret smile curling his lips… Dorian’s lips. He sits upright with surprise at himself before inhaling sharp through his nose.

“Quiet down, Alistair,” he chides, eyes still on Dorian. “You’re making a scene.” Alistair says something (he always says something) as he finally sits down, but Cullen would never be able to recall it because at that moment, Dorian turns to catch his eye. He swears he sees Dorian cock his head at him in curiosity before Cullen breaks contact by running a hand through his hair, and focuses on his sandwich.

It was turkey and cheddar today. Really quite good-- though, perhaps, a bit dry.

 

Cullen piles notebooks and worksheets on to his bedroom desk, shoving them into piles of ‘important’ and ‘very important.’ It was the weekend, sure, but that didn’t mean that he could just let his workload wait until the last minute (He wasn’t Alistair, after all). He was determined to at least finish the textbook problems for calculus so he wouldn’t feel too guilty about spending the rest of his evening online. He tucks into the equations and time passes as it does, and before he knows it, he’s being called downstairs by Mia for dinner.

She gives three courtesy knocks on his door before barging in with a declaratory “Dinner’s ready, hurry up before mum gets angry!”

Cullen sighs, waving a hand at her without turning around.

“I’ll be right down, Mia. Give me a minute.”

Now if he was to differentiate…

“Now, Cullen,” she sighs, the familiar Rutherford exasperation apparent in her voice, striding over to tug at the back of his collar. Firmly. It chokes him a little bit.

“Fine, fine!” he splutters, stumbling out of his chair to follow her. He coughs, bringing a hand to his throat. “I would’ve been down in a minute,” he grouses, walking down the stairs.

“You always say that. Last time I trusted you, mum was ready to come up there herself with a silver platter to serve your arse for dessert.”

Cullen frowns at the vivid imagery, though Mia wasn’t far off from the truth. Their mother, while no doubt sweet, was indeed a force to be reckoned with when it came to punctuality. Cullen can recall kindergarten days where he’d been ushered onto the bus with only one shoe tied and his shirt partly tucked in. That was where he’d met Leliana because she supposedly knew how to tie shoes. (Emphasis on ‘supposedly.’)

After a dinner of homemade stew and potatoes (Cullen would call it his favorite, but he really did like anything his family made), he excuses himself and marches back upstairs. He checks the clock to see that it’s still only around six, so he forces himself to power through the last of the problems.

The pencil drops forgotten from his hand the second he places the last decimal point and parenthesis, and Cullen grins as he rouses his computer from sleep. He wastes no time now in double-clicking the icon on his desktop labeled ‘Dragon Age’ and watching it boot up with its fantasy-music and medieval login menu. The first thing that catches his eye is the message tab, blinking red with five unread messages. He opens them and deletes the spam, but has to suppress a grin at the one he’s saved for last.

 

**[October 10th, 2014 / 6:54am]**

 

 **From:** MagnateMagic

 **To:** CosimosLions

 

_Well that all sounds well and good, what with the raid last week-- but you know how Solastone gets when things don’t go according to plan. What a pain, but, alas, he is our team’s only healer for now. Too bad we can’t throw him to the rogue Qunari bandits, no? Hm, blasted elf._

_And in reference to your other question, yes. I’m fine. I’m sorry for the emotional downpour the other night. Things have been tense at home, as I’m sure you’re well aware from my other messages, hah. My father continues to disapprove of the fact I’m gay, but, well, what can you do? Grin and bear it. Make good grades. Keep your head low. Just another year of high school, you know?_

_But… thank you. Your words from before mean a lot. I’m eternally grateful to have met you on here, Cosimos. In fact, you’ve got me nearly convinced you’re not a 50 year old man, after all! Hah. I swear if we ever meet, I’ll kiss you on the spot-- I mean, we are married after all, no? And what a lucky man I am to have such a strapping warrior for a husband ; )_

 

Cullen reads the message over at least three times, propping his head up up with an elbow on his desk, taking in the words that are only attached to the pixelated face of a Mage. A very dashing pixelated mage with an Enchanter’s Coat and ridiculously swoopy hair (much more thoughtfully crafted than Cullen’s blond, brute warrior), but, alas, still only a video game.

His chest flips at the last few lines and he has to fight the embarrassed flush on his face. They were only words; words typed from who knows where by who knows who. But as he stares at MagnateMagic’s avatar, he can’t help but feel as if he really does know him in person. With how often they talk, Cullen considers him a friend already. He’s considered on more than one occasion asking for a number, even a name, but, he figures that if Magnate was interested in any of that, he’d have broached the topic already. (He always was a bit more forward than Cullen with their conversation topics.)

The thought of being kissed makes his chest flip though, and he chides himself for being so ridiculous. It was virtual, they were just words. He hits ‘reply’ but sees that Magnate is online already, so he opts for opening up the chatbox instead with a cheery:

 

 **CosimosLions:** Hi! : )

 

He watches as the ellipses immediately appear and Cullen settles back in his chair, shoves up his glasses, and prepares for what he’d been looking forward to all week.

\---

 

He absolutely loathes mornings and everything they represent; singing birds, sunshine, and general interaction with that detested breed of human known as ‘Morning People.’ How anybody could be decidedly happy about getting up before seven o’clock was one of the rare mysteries to him that he’d prefer not to delve deeper into. The only thing Dorian wants to delve deeper into at the moment are his covers, but with a theatrical groan into his pillow accompanied by the shrill screech of an alarm clock, he raises himself like the dead from a grave.

Morning motions are automatic at this point; hot shower, brush teeth, blow-dry hair. Like a machine. He runs wax-coated hands through his hair to push it into shape, repeating this a few times before he’s satisfied with the results. Dorian slips on a sweater (the cream colored cable-knit one, a cherished part of his wardrobe) and some jeans, grabs his bag, and contemplates breakfast.

Sounds of things bustling in the kitchen alert him to the presence of his parents though, which is enough to aid Dorian’s decision on breakfast. He ducks into the room and catches his father’s eye with a terse nod.

“I’m heading out.”

He lowers the tablet in his hand to look up at Dorian over his glasses.

“Already?”

Dorian shrugs. “Yes. If I have the magistrate’s permission, of course,” he says the words sarcastically, dipping them in another layer of sarcasm just to be sure his point gets across.

His father sighs, weary and tired of the bickering. But Dorian finds it hard to summon much remorse right now, not when words like ‘no son of mine’ and ‘we can fix you,’ rattle around in his head like thumbtacks; cold and sharp and puncturing him from within.

“Dorian, I need the car today.”

Dorian gives his father a surprised look, but presses no further.

“Have a nice day,” he says, clipped, devoid of feeling. He pats the doorframe for emphasis before striding down the hallway. (A small part of him, as he walks down the long hallway of the house, trembles. Not with anger, but with fear. With disappointment and loathing and self-consciousness. Dorian tucks it away along with a copy of Hamlet he’s reading under his arm.)

The bus comes fifteen minutes later, and he’s grateful that at least he’s one of the first stops. He can’t imagine trying to fight for a seat among such teenage rabble. He slides into one of the cold, hard leather seats, bag in lap, and happily empties his mind as he stares out the window.

That is until a mess of limbs and blond curls tumble quite literally into his lap not five minutes later. Dorian startles out of his reverie as the boy spits out a hurried apology, words falling just as gracefully from his lips as his own stumble on the bus. He looks like a dog almost, Dorian notes; square jaw, emphatic eyes, far too eager for his own good this early in the morning. Throw a tail and some ears on him, and Dorian’s certain you could mistake him for a golden retriever.

He suppresses a smile at his own joke before sliding over, motioning with a single hand for the boy to join him.

“It’s quite alright. I can hardly blame your lack of coordination when it’s apparent our bus driver cares more about getting a paycheck than ensuring we arrive safely.”

The boy gives him a nervous laugh and sits, bag clutched tightly in his arms. Dorian has to admit that, tumble aside, he holds himself with a tight sort of grace. His broad shoulders under the worn, red flannel shift as he settles, glancing at Dorian nervously before his lips press thin and he gets the distinct look like he’s going to be sick. His eyes fall away from Dorian as he pulls out his phone.

He feels distinctly ignored and opens his mouth to say something, but the words are lost when the bus goes over a particularly bad bump (potholes, this town never fixes the treacherous things). But the split second of consideration is enough for Dorian to see that the blond is clearly not interested in a conversation. Despite most assumptions, Dorian knows that (sometimes, on occasion) his loquaciousness isn’t always appreciated, so he invents a story for the blond puppy of a boy instead. Perhaps his intense consternation was a result of an unexpected test he didn’t study for, or a soon-to-be-ex girlfriend that he’d wronged somehow. How scandalous.

Dorian’s shoulder relax, dropping their usual posture when he holds himself to speak, and steals one more glance at the boy to make sure he isn’t watching and pulls out his own phone, sliding open a folder of apps. He taps to open the mobile Dragon Age app with an admittedly embarrassing thrill of excited rebellion.

If only Haven knew; Dorian Pavus, open homosexual, closet nerd. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t care, that he should be able to like what he likes, but, well, he really only was a teenager. Insecurity and hormones and all that.

Dorian flicks through the screens until he reaches the messages, a smile splitting his lips. He taps it open and scrolls.

 

**[October 9th, 2014 / 11:31pm]**

**From:** CosimosLions

 **To:** MagnateMage

 

_Yeah, haha, that… that was definitely an interesting raid, wasn’t it? IronBull didn’t seem too pleased with Solastone choosing the Elder Stone over the Edged Sword at the end of the quest, but, well, alright, haha._

_Um… are you alright though? You seemed a bit off earlier and during the raid. I haven’t done anything to upset you, have I? If so, I’m very sorry. You’re really one of my, ummm… favorite people on here. And I’d probably say the same if I knew you in person, haha. (Maker, I really do sound like a 50 year old predator, don’t I?)_

_But… you’re really nice, Magnate, and for what it’s worth, I think you’re really great! I always really look forward to signing on and seeing you online : ) I’m honored to have married you lol_

_Hope your day’s a bit better tomorrow!_

 

The words go straight to his chest and he berates himself. It’s just a game. Just a stranger on the internet who happens to enjoy Dragon Age and Dorian and their conversations and is surprisingly clever at the most unexpected of moments and is disarmingly kind and uses the word ‘really’ far too often. He twists his lips and tries to reign in the errant thoughts, back into the neat little basket he’d collected them in. Dorian knows himself. Knows that if he had a name or face to attach to this person, he’d never be able to let go entirely. It would only worsen his infatuation with Cosimos. He’d rather leave things like that in the dark.

Dorian wastes no time in tapping out a response, entirely oblivious to the large smile on his face while doing so. The rest of the bus ride slips past in a happy blur, but he can’t help notice when the boy next to him all but emergency evacuates the bus as soon as they pull to a stop. Dorian twists his lips into a confused frown and sniffs himself (just in case), and, yep, he’s definitely wearing deodorant today. Perhaps the boy really was rushing to cram for a test or soothe the nerves of some poor girl.

 

Lunch begins with Vivienne and a script in his face. It’s a well known fact that theater kids cluster-- much like mice or spiders or dust bunnies under a bed. They have a knack for sniffing one another out and before long, you have a table full of kids bursting into song or quoting lines or just flat out brooding “for the sake of art.” Dorian isn’t quite sure which category he belongs in, or if he wants to belong at all. Social Pariah has a pretty nice ring to it, and he’d worn it pretty well at his last school (before the Son of the Superintendent Incident of 2013 which really just obliterated any titles other than ‘cocksucker.’)

Dorian knew he’d been playing with fire, but he could never resist a challenge. (And, a bitter part of him thinks, he’d thought that maybe there was something after all between them, but that too had been dashed. Hence why he retreated for a long period of time and found himself signing up for an online video game of all things, stumbling into a world of elves and magic and dashing blond knights.)

“So then I cast him off the rafters where he proceeded to fall and break every bone in his body.”

He stirs, blinking at Vivienne.

“I’m sorry, what?”

She gives him that secret smile, the one where she knows he’d lapsed into introspection right there in broad daylight, trailing off from whatever verbal tirade he usually subjected people to. Again. A ‘poor habit you should really work on,’ she’d told him once.

“Do try to keep up.”

Dorian chuckles. He has to admit that at least Vivienne knew how to keep things interesting. A sharp voice catches his ear suddenly, and Dorian finds his eyes pulled to the scene. A redhead flails his arms before sitting down, but that’s not what holds Dorian’s attention; sitting across from the redhead is the blond from this morning, sandwich in hand as he furrows his brow at his friend. Dorian wonders idly if his mother made it for him, a small pang of jealousy running through him before he catches himself, swatting it away. The blond turns back towards Dorian, their eyes meeting and for a brief, fleeting moment, he can see it.

The mask of nerves hasn’t had time to form yet, so his features are left gloriously unguarded; relaxed, open, youthful like the first days of Spring. Dorian cocks his head at him and swallows thickly, drawing his feet closer towards himself under the table. It happens in an instant, like a flame bursting from a lighter, burning hot in Dorian’s stomach, lighting up the darkness. A warmth like that from a summer sunbeam spreads through him, and he inhales sharp and sudden.

The blond regains himself quickly and the moment’s over with a sweep of a hand through those curls. Dorian’s left just as blank as before, but now he’s stuck turning over the look on the boy’s face in his mind, picking it apart.

Dorian flattens out the script in his hand and looks at it. He couldn’t afford any distractions like that. Not now. Not at this school. Not again. Besides, he had Cosimos for that.

Practice for Romeo and Juliet was going to go on forever today. He could just feel it.

 

The house is dark when he gets home after theatre practice around seven, and Dorian is disproportionately relieved at that fact (if not a little concerned at his apathy.) He shoulders the door open while twisting the key and stops by the kitchen, checking the fridge for something to eat (lemons, leftover steak, some zucchini, greek yogurt that you couldn’t pay him to ingest.) He sighs and settles on the cold tupperware of steak and the zucchini, forgoing heating it up while sticking a fork in his mouth to carry.

Once in his room, he flips on the light and dumps his bag onto the floor and settles in front of his computer, tapping the mouse to wake it up. He leans back, pops open the tupperware, and starts gnawing on the steak rather gracelessly as his computer boots up. If only Vivienne could see him like this-- smudged eyeliner, sweaty clothes, and attacking meat alone in a room (the less sensual kind of attacking of meat that involves more actual eating and digesting. Not… well, never mind. You get the gist.)

She’d probably ‘tsk’ at him and give that sly smile of hers, the one with the raised brow that’d leave him feeling distinctly like a scolded toddler with his hand still in the cookie jar.

But here, in Dorian’s room, he was free to do as he pleased-- and that included, especially, taking on the form of a vegetative human being as his desktop version of Dragon Age loaded before his eyes. He sticks another piece of zucchini in his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. He looks over the stats of his character, checks for any new patches to download, and scrolls quickly through his messages (nothing new)-- but before he can choose a server, the chatbox at the bottom of the screen lights up with the name CosimosLions.

Dorian smiles and sets down the tupperware, clicking on the chatbox. Inside it reads a happy:

 

 **CosimosLions:** Hi! : )

 

He grins stupidly at his computer screen and, at least for the moment, he lets himself forget about the obstacles that lay before him in reality; family and school and disapproval and disappointment. For now, it’s Dragon Age and his friend (that he may or may not, embarrassingly, have a crush on-- which, yes, he knows is about seven colors of the rainbow ridiculous.) Though, he thinks he’s deserved at least this much tonight, no?

Dorian places his fingers on the keyboard and starts typing back a response.

 

\---

 

Monday rolls around far faster than Cullen had hoped. He’d managed to log in some substantial hours on Dragon Age this weekend with MagnateMage by his side, which brings a smile to his face as he sits idly in British Lit; conversations about the game itself to their opinions on tv shows to why knock-off toothpaste is just good as the branded stuff all flow through Cullen’s mind. He remembers that at one point he had to bury his face in a pillow to stop the laughter that threatened to spill like papers from a folder.

Throughout the weekend, they’d managed to work through a number of quests together, and Cullen had found himself so absorbed in the In Hushed Whispers storyline, he had decided to grab his game guide this morning, cramming it into his bag along with calculus and Keats. He intends to steal away during lunch, citing homework in the library to his friends, and thumbing through the pages. (He and Magnate were determined to reach max loot and find all the codexes. Very determined indeed.)

As soon as the bell rings, Cullen is up with his backpack slung over one shoulder, hurrying towards the door before the usual swell of students can reach it. He hooks a sharp left around the corner and reaches his locker in record time; swap out books, grab lunch, shut locker. He’s got it down to a science.

He heads directly towards the library and secures a seat in the far corner, chewing on carrots (quietly) with his book sprawled open in front of him. He misses the grey eyes that pass over him, pausing with consideration, before continuing past-- however, they miss the exact nature of the book in front of Cullen.

Lunch passes and after four more classes, Cullen is waving goodbye to a starry-eyed Alistair (he’d finally managed to land a ‘Hello’ to Cousland, a feat that seems almost impossible), and after double-checking what books he needs and which projects are due when, Cullen shuts his locker. The rush of students wash past him as he turns down a route less crowded, but a few bodies bump up against him and suddenly he feels the book slip from his arm, and the feet of students don’t cease. Cullen frowns as he leans down, only to witness it kicked down the hallway, and he hurries towards it, watching as some sympathetic soul picks it up for him.

When he looks up to see who it is, he instinctively reaches to rub the back of his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he starts. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, but he figures it can’t hurt. Dorian Pavus beams at him and Cullen gets the distinct impression that he’s missing something here. “I can, uh…” he lifts his hand for the guide, but when Dorian starts flipping through it, he lets it drop.

“Do you play?”

“What? Well, yes. Hence, that,” Cullen nods towards the book. He thinks idly of the bus he needs to catch. Dorian studies him, and the boy looks radically different from that one morning on the bus. His face is open and smiling, eager like a child waiting for a surprise.

“Hm, I had a sense you had good taste in things,” he teases, and Cullen laughs nervously. Surely Dorian must be poking fun at him, but when the boy looks around carefully, as if making sure nobody was listening, he asks “Have you been enjoying the In Hushed Whispers quest?”

“Oh definitely, my friend and I were working on it all last weekend,” Cullen can’t help but grin. Dorian nods his approval, still not surrendering the guide. Cullen’s about to mention his bus, but Dorian speaks up first.

“Do you have anywhere to go? I’ve got half an hour to kill before practice, and it’s dreadfully boring just wandering around by myself until then. I could give you a lift home, even. I have the car today. I’m sorry, what’s your name? I’ve just been referring to you as ‘The Blond One’ in my head, which surely can’t be your given name. I’m Dorian, by the way.” The words are out in a whirlwind, rushing around Cullen’s head.

“I mean, uh. I’m Cullen.” He thinks quickly if he needs to get any of his siblings off the bus or take out Rex for a walk, but Cullen figures he can spare half an hour. “Yeah,” he starts, “I just need to be home before four to do some things, but other than that I should be good.” Cullen is admittedly amused, if not still a bit wary, but when Dorian beams at him and tells him to follow, he finds himself listening.

It ends with a milkshake and plans to play Dragon Age together over at Cullen’s this weekend. He’s not entirely sure how it happened, but he’s surprisingly okay with it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy second part is up! This was definitely an... exercise to write lmao. Hopefully though, I've gotten HS AUs out of my system, so I can try other things l o l
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments and kudos so far, and, as always, they're super appreciated ;D
> 
> Hope everybody's doing well and that you enjoy!
> 
> (pssstt as per the usual, it's unbeta'd, so feel free to yell at my about shtuff ;D )

Throughout the week, Dorian and him catch each other’s eyes across hallways and lunch tables and the general battlefield of high school, nodding or giving the occasional polite wave-- once even a few words and a smile when there weren’t many other students around. Cullen has a growing sense of anxiety in him as the weekend nears, but the stupid excitement of having someone over seems to overwhelm any doubts that spring up. He wonders idly if he should tell MagnateMage, but decides against it. For now. Maybe if he was online, Cullen could have the three of them work together-- that wouldn’t be too weird, right?

 

\---

 

On Saturday, Dorian pulls up on the curb. He’s just come from practice and couldn’t have been more relieved to leave the stuffy confines of the auditorium. He loves acting, yes, but there was always some sort of drama rearing its ugly green head behind the scenes that (while amusing) took up far too much time and effort to sort out. But he figures it’d been worth it, biding his patience as he slips his bag over his shoulder, laptop inside.

Since Monday he’d been playing Cullen’s and his conversation over and over on repeat in his head, picking it apart and trying to wear the childish excitement thin, but it was a fruitless endeavor. Five days later he was still just as horribly enthused and now standing out Cullen’s house, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to damper down the smile-- even if it means staring with the sort of curiosity that’s only born from a life of wealth at the powder blue paneling of Cullen’s house, green lawn scattered with a few children’s toys and a small basketball hoop, early Halloween decorations hung on the front porch.

It’s certainly a stark contrast from the ornate mansion he’s known since birth, decorated with foreign tapestries and valuable artwork. In some parts of the house, he feels as if he even breathes wrong, something will be amiss.

He starts the walk up Cullen’s driveway towards the door, but a low bark startles him into nearly dropping his bag.

“Calm down, Rex, it’s just Dorian,” Cullen says, blond head popping from the side of his garage. He’s holding back a large, beast of a dog (okay, maybe medium-to-large, but Dorian was not an animal person, alright?), tail thumping against Cullen’s side. He reigns in the fluffy golden-haired thing and nudges him inside. “You can come in through here,” he calls. Dorian approaches. Very carefully.

“Genetics must run strongly in your family, I can see the resemblance.”

Cullen chuckles at the light jab.

“You look like you’re about to be attacked by a bear.” Dorian frowns, but makes no attempt to deny it. “You can come, uh, in through here, I’ll hold Rex, don’t worry,” Cullen says. He reaches back to grab the panting, wriggling dog by the collar so Dorian can pass through untouched. “Just slip your shoes off, mum hates it when we trail dirt in the house.”

Dorian scoffs, but abides by the request regardless. “Dirt? On my shoes? Please, as if I’d put my feet into such filthy things.” Cullen gives him a curious look. Dorian sighs. “I’m joking, I’m joking. If you must know, I simply just don’t go outside often.” He gives Cullen a secret smile. “All those hours I spend playing stupid online video games instead, hm?”

“Stupid to who?” Cullen says, but his tone holds no malice as they walk into the kitchen. “Want anything to drink or eat?” He asks, sticking his head into the fridge without waiting for Dorian’s response. “I’ve put in an order for a cheese pizza if that’s alright, should be here soon.”

“Hm, I suppose that’ll satisfy my regal tastes,” Dorian says, leaning against the counter. He looks around while Cullen digs some sodas out of the fridge. There are various toys scattered around inside the living room from what he can see, along with books and magazines and clothes. It continues to baffle Dorian on some level, especially when compared to the decadent though organized household Dorian’s accustomed to, yet he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from everything in Cullen’s house. “Where’s the rest of your family? Or have you managed to uphold the ruse of one all this time? Or perhaps you planned it this way, hm?” he teases. It’s standard Dorian flirting by the book, almost second nature to him, but when he sees Cullen stand up straight and thunk his head on a vegetable shelf, Dorian thinks he could get used to the amusing sight. The boy was easier to fluster than Cosimos.

Cullen hands him a ginger ale without being asked, and Dorian reaches to accept it, their hands brushing quickly. The blond chuckles nervously, drawing away.

“No, I just-- my sisters are at friend’s houses, and my parents are at my younger brother’s lacrosse game at the school in the next town over. They’ll probably be back later tonight.” He reaches to rub at his neck, pointedly looking away from Dorian.

“So just us then?” Dorian purrs, leaning in just so. The blush deepens on Cullen’s ears. Dorian may be enjoying this a little too much.

Cullen takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but it dissolves into a smile as he says “And Rex,” laughing sharply at Dorian’s reaction (he did not yell, he was just startled into a loud exclamation, thank you) when the beast licks at his hand. “C’mon, Rex, leave him alone. Clearly more of a cat person, isn’t he?” He laughs at his own joke like the dog understands, and Dorian wonders if he’s made some horrible mistake in coming here.

Dorian bites the inside of his cheek and does not pout. He steps away, eyeing the dog that wags his tail blissfully unaware of the vengeful thoughts that run through his mind.

“Shall we start, then?” Dorian asks. He hopes to gather some of his tact back while he can.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, sure. We can set up in my room, if that’s alright?”

Dorian bites his tongue on a comment about being alone in Cullen’s bedroom and settles for a nod. “Lead the way, good man.”

 

Dorian grins at Cullen’s Lord of The Rings posters and compliments them very highly, and he thinks it assuages the boy’s obvious anxiety at least a little bit. Cullen shoves books and clothes off the end of his bed to make room for Dorian, and using some textbooks, they manage to create a makeshift surface for Dorian’s laptop and mouse.

“Is this alright? I mean, I could move my stuff off the desk, if you’d like.”

“So polite,” Dorian says, stretching out on the bed. “I think this will suffice just fine, thank you.”

“Alright, I’ll get logged on then,” Cullen smiles, standing from the bed to move towards his desk. Dorian gives his backside an appreciative glance before snapping his attention back to his laptop booting up. He thinks idly of Cosimos and the strangest pang of guilt of all things surges through him, as if he were cheating on a virtual marriage somehow by merely looking at a real, tangible human being. He hopes at least that Cosimos isn’t online. Dorian’s not entirely sure how he’d handle flirting with two awkward blonds at the same time.

The menu for Dragon Age pops up along with a warning about not being connected to the wifi.

“Ah,” Dorian mutters to himself, “Cullen?”

“Hm?” he says, not turning around. “Something happen?”

“Rather something didn’t happen. I need wifi connectivity, what’s the password? Unless you’re one of those families that magically is always connected and nobody actually knows the password.”

Cullen chuckles and picks up a sticky note, lifting it behind his back in offering to Dorian.

“Here, we keep ‘em on post-its around the house so we always know just in case. Otherwise we’d probably very well be one of those families that never actually knows.”

Dorian stands and pads across the short distance, thinking briefly of the pizza. He can’t really remember the last time he’s had pizza, and the thought of it makes his stomach growl with anticipation. Having a family bent on health consciousness was probably great and all, but he was a teenager. He’s pretty certain the occasional greasy mistake was mandatory.

He reaches for the sticky note on Cullen’s outstretched hand, but an impulsive glance at Cullen’s screen has him freezing midway. From there, any and all social consciousness he has is thrown out the window along with a number of other metaphorical things. His hand clamps down on Cullen’s shoulder, hard, and the single word, “You!” is tumbling from his mouth. Dorian brings the other hand to his mouth as he squints, confused and excited and nigh manic at what he sees.

For sitting on Cullen’s screen is his character profile with the username CosimosLions.

“Dorian? Dorian are you alright?”

He hears the words, repeated over and over, but all he can do is laugh.

“It’s fucking you! I can’t fucking believe it!” He stumbles backwards onto the bed, wifi password all but forgotten as Cullen follows him, concern painting his features.

“Dorian you’re going to have to explain here,” Cullen pleads, standing warily in front of a hysterical Dorian.

“You fucker! You’re him! Cosimos!”

Still nothing.

Dorian gives a dramatic sigh and scrambles to retrieve the wifi password, tap it in with trembling hands, and then load his Dragon Age browser. As soon as he pulls up the window, he swivels his laptop almost violently on his lap to face Cullen.

He’s like a fish out of water, Dorian decides. His mouth is open, gaping, face turning impossibly red with a myriad of emotions, no doubt. Cullen looks between the screen and Dorian at least six times, trying to process it.

“Maker’s fucking breath,” he finally says, voice not nearly as loud as Dorian’s, but the sheer surprise still evident. He collapses to sit on the bed next to Dorian, burying his face in his hands as he leans over and starts laughing too. Dorian’s not sure how long they sit there, tears in their eyes as the weight of the situation explodes around them like confetti cannons gone berserk, but what he does know is that after they’re breathless and their chests hurt from laughing, and they finally are able to look each other in the eye without erupting into more giggles, Cullen is striking; curly hair mussed after running fingers through it too many times, his glasses slipping down his nose after being bent over with laughter for so long, and his face red with giddiness.

In the wake of it all, in the silence, chests heaving, Dorian remembers the promise he’d made in their last full correspondence. And if Cullen’s eyes flickering downward are anything to go by, he figures Cullen remembers it too. He feels it; his heart slamming against his chest in a way that hasn’t happened since the superintendent’s son, the excitement and fear and electricity thick in the air. A part of Dorian wants to run. He wants to run until he wakes up from this dream because surely that’s all it could be. Life doesn’t work like this. You don’t fall half in love with someone online only to find that they’re real and gorgeous and right in front of you waiting to be kissed.

But he doesn’t run. Not this time. Instead he brings a trembling hand up to Cullen’s face, his thumb stroking at the early stages of stubble, and he breathes. When Cullen leans in, he just about loses what little control he has, and he can almost taste the blond’s lips.

Which is of course when the doorbell rings.

Dorian lets out a frustrated noise while Cullen of course laughs.

“Pizza’s here, I think.”

“Fuck the pizza.”

“I’d prefer not to, but I won’t judge your preferences,” Cullen quips, and there’s that flash of wit Dorian’s seen glimpses of online. Dorian grumbles, but smiles nonetheless. He starts to pull away when Cullen catches his wrist, pecking him quickly on the lips. Dorian blinks with surprise.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen hurries to say, cheeks pink. “I just, um…” Dorian kisses him again, a touch longer, but still quick enough to be a tease.

The doorbell rings again.

“Please get that pizza before I personally go down there and do much more than simply scare the deliveryman away,” Dorian mutters against Cullen’s mouth.

“You’re just as bossy in real life as you are in the game,” Cullen snorts, standing quickly to dodge Dorian’s swat. Cullen shoots him a grin before walking down the stairs. Dorian leans back, basking in the lull between events with a smug smile. While it wasn’t necessarily awkward before between them, he feels that now, with everything united, they’d skipped past all the boring introductions and smalltalk and polite conversation. Dorian already knows a great deal about Cullen’s habits and tics and favorite things from hour long conversations late into the night. He knows about the time in second grade he spilled grape juice all over his shirt on picture day, or the joy of winning at the horse races when he was ten (he only won $14, but it still made Cullen happy), or the quiet insecurities that gnawed at him when he was alone sometimes.

And now, all those nights he’d spent wishing he could cheer Cullen up in person, wrap his arms around Cosimos’ sad words, he could. Well, if Cullen allowed him. If Cullen’s wants aligned with his. Dorian begins to worry now, a seed of concern planted in the back of his mind. Though before it can sprout into a full-fledged anxiety that he’d ultimately deny, Cullen strolls back in, pizza box in hand. When he looks upon the curly-haired blond, his current worries are dispelled.

“He really wasn’t all that pleased with me, but I gave him a big tip to make up for it.”

“You gave him a big tip?” Dorian asks, lips automatically curling into a smile.

“Oh, Maker, no, Dorian,” Cullen stumbles over his words, opening the pizza box in offering. Dorian happily takes a slice and Cullen settles down next to him again, and he realizes he’s staring.

“Can I help you?” Dorian asks around a mouthful of particularly gooey cheese. Cullen stiffens, but doesn’t look away.

“I’m sorry, I just…” he scratches at the back of his neck. “You’re just… here. And real.”

“Last time I checked, yes. And you’re not a fifty year old man.”

Cullen chuckles. “Maker, I’m sorry, you’re just… very attractive.”

Dorian feels that right now would be an excellent time for his usual ego to kick in, come up with a witty response like ‘well of course I am’ or ‘I’m glad your eyesight is good,’ but instead he nearly chokes on his pizza like the graceless idiot he is.

He sets the slice down in the open box while Cullen passes him his soda, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

After a few tantalizingly long moments, Dorian manages a simple, “Thank you.”

Cullen, golden dog that he is, just smiles. Add a wagging tail to him and there’d be no difference between him and Rex downstairs. But he sits there, open and sweet as Dorian’s always pictured him to be, not expecting a single thing in return from Dorian.

So he kisses Cullen.

He kisses him slowly and sweetly, pouring every word and conversation they’ve had into it. He takes his time pressing Cullen’s lips open, running teeth across his bottom lip before teasing it with his tongue and sucking on it lightly. Hands find their way around waists and shoulders and the pizza box is moved onto the floor as Dorian lays Cullen down beneath him, hips slotting together as the kiss deepens, and he swears he can hear a breathy moan escape the blond.

As they continue, Dorian feels his jeans growing tight, a heat spreading in his groin as Cullen shifts below him, pulling him closer, tighter, warmer. He finds himself rocking against Cullen, letting out a satisfied sound as he feels the blond’s own cock hardening against his, and Dorian has to force himself to still.

“Is this,” he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Is this alright?”

Cullen, in response, buries his face in Dorian’s neck and bites down hard, arms keeping him solidly in place. Dorian groans and his hips twitch on their own volition.

“I’m going to take that as a yes, then.”

He kisses Cullen again, and grinds against him, relishing the friction greatly, but also desperately needing more, more, more. Dorian can feel himself building with orgasm, head spinning as hands move all over one another in a dizzying experience and Dorian opens his mouth to say something, anything, to let Cullen know how beautiful he is, how great he feels, anything--

Which is probably precisely why Rex wanders into the room and starts barking at them.

“Are you kidding me,” Dorian grinds out, collapsing his head onto Cullen’s shoulder. He feels the blond rumble underneath him with laughter. “No, you are not allowed to find this funny. I refuse to let you.” Cullen places two hands on Dorian’s shoulders and rolls him gently off. Dorian glares as Rex captures Cullen’s attention.

“You’re not… you’re not jealous, are you?”

“I am not jealous of a dog, no.”

Cullen stares at him.

“You definitely are,” he snorts before dragging Rex out of the room. “I think he needs to go out, so I’ll just take care of that.”

Dorian flops back onto the bed.

“Good, good. Then you can come back up here and take care of me.”

He hears Cullen smack into something on the way down and smiles smugly to himself.

 

\---

 

They don’t get to finish and Cullen’s pretty sure Dorian’s ready to jump out a window at this point. After he’d taken Rex out, he saw Mia pop out of a friend’s car and wave cheerily at him, bounding over to pet Rex (who Cullen shoved in front of his waist hastily.) Cullen was of course glad to see her, but he’d dashed back inside with a quick excuse before she could get too close.

As he takes the stairs back up two at a time to Dorian, who lights up immediately upon seeing Cullen (and, Maker, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing that smile), he shakes his head.

“No.”

“No?”

“Sister.”

Dorian groans, but it’s a distinctly different sound from what he’d heard minutes ago.

“Cullen,” he most definitely whines. “Cullen… I’m hard,” he hisses. “You did this to me. You can’t just get a man hard and leave him for the wolves!” He flops backwards onto the bed, throwing his arms dramatically over his face like a man waiting for Death. So Cullen sits next to him and leans down to peck his lips quickly. Dorian’s nose twitches like a rabbit’s.

“Well, I mean, you did come over to play Dragon Age.”

“That I did,” Dorian sighs. He peeks up at Cullen from under his arm. “And we haven’t exactly done that yet, hm?”

“I don’t believe we have,” Cullen says. He lifts Dorian’s arm entirely by the wrist, pressing another kiss against his cheek.

“Cullen.”

Both boys freeze. Cullen’s lips still against Dorian’s face. Cullen is the first one to turn, considering, well, it is his sister standing in the doorway.

“What, Mia?” he grinds out, biting the inside of his cheek. At least his nerves were providing a good mood killer to halt any errant salacious thoughts that might’ve popped up. The girl, only two years younger than him, stands with a wide grin on her face with the sort of mischievous look only a sibling could have.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,” she grins, eyes narrowing.

“I- we’re, he’s not…” Cullen splutters. He feels his face growing hot and he wishes more than anything right now a large comet to come crashing down through his house, preferably taking him along with it. Dorian is surprisingly of no help and remains silent.

Mia just nods, approving almost, and closes the door behind her as she backs away. Cullen knows he isn’t going to hear the end of it later. He looks back down at Dorian who watches Cullen carefully.

“So we’re not…”

“What?”

Dorian coughs and sits up, looking oddly embarrassed.

“Nothing, nothing. It’s silly,” he chuckles, but it’s lacking any feeling. Cullen turns Dorian’s face towards him with imploring eyes.

“You know you can tell me.” He presses a kiss to Dorian’s mouth.

“I just find it a bit funny that we’re married in the game, I suppose,” Dorian says with dark amusement. “But, well, not really certain of where we stand… in reality. I mean, technically we’ve just met, so I don’t know what I’m saying or what I’m expecting, and-”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

Cullen kisses him again. He kicks himself internally for lacking eloquence even with his own family members.

“I, um, I wasn’t sure what you wanted, I’m sorry, I panicked.” He kisses Dorian again, smiling at him. “But, if you’ll have me, I’d… I’d like to… date you?” The words sends a thrill through him.

Dorian this time is the one who kisses him.

“I suppose that’d be amenable.”

“Great,” Cullen says, pulling away before it can become too heated. “Now can we play some Dragon Age, finally? I told IronBull we’d be on at least half an hour ago. I’m not sure I can handle him being angry at our lack of punctuality. Again.”

Dorian snorts and rolls over in front of his laptop.

“Fine, fine. But we’re keeping our share of the loot regardless of what he says afterwards.”

Cullen, returning to his desk, finds himself staring at MagnateMage a little more intently as they slash through corrupted templars and cultist mages. And if after Dorian throws a small tantrum when Solastone fails to heal him, and Cullen gets up from the computer to kiss his whining away, which then throws the entire raid into chaos, well, nobody else has to know.

 

\---

 

It takes three weeks for them to say ‘I love you.’ It’s not grandiose or even really all that romantic when it happens (they’re sitting in a local diner; casual, dingy, very retro. It was at Cullen’s insistence), but when Cullen looks up from his bacon cheeseburger and nudges Dorian with his feet under the table, Dorian can tell something’s on his mind.

“Fry for your thoughts?” he jokes, snatching one of Cullen’s to dip into his strawberry milkshake.

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to give me the fry for my thoughts in exchange,” Cullen smiles.

“Yes, well, not all of us can order literal grease, eat it, and still look good.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered.”

Dorian smiles, sly and inviting. “I always mean the best when I’m referring to you.”

Cullen chuckles and glances away, out the window. Silence falls over them, comfortable and safe. The sounds of the other customers and silverware against porcelain plates is enough for now.

“I think I love you,” Cullen says after a few minutes.

Dorian’s hand stills on its way to the fry basket. He doesn’t meet Cullen’s eyes.

“Think?”

A pause of consideration.

“No, I’m pretty sure I do.”

Dorian rolls words around his mouth, piecing together some kind of clever answer, a witty retort, but all he manages is a slightly embarrassed, “Well that’s good. It’d be rather awkward if it was only one of us then.”

Cullen doesn’t force him to say it out loud, not here at least, but when he nudges the fry basket closer to Dorian and he takes a few, that’s answer enough for now.

 

\---

 

Hands run over skin, pulling desperately at the shoulders of a shirt to slide it onto the floor. A hot mouth attaches itself to his lips in a frenzy; eager and giddy and “Maker, Dorian,” Cullen hisses. Dorian pushes him gently back onto the bed, landing with a resounding bounce before toppling onto his back. Dorian wastes no time in crawling up him, pressing kisses down his jaw and neck and chest, sparing no breath. They’re alone. Blessedly alone for once. And Dorian intends to make good use of it. (Well, Rex is here, but Dorian ensured that he was put into his crate this time.)

All of that falls to the wayside though as if it’d never existed, never mattered, and all Dorian can focus on in that moment is the heat of Cullen’s body, the quiet, sweet sounds that he utters from kiss-swollen lips.

Hips rock against one another and Dorian smirks devilishly as he snakes his way downward towards Cullen’s jeans. He palms the blond with one hand, the other trailing teasingly around a peaked nipple, and Dorian drinks in his sounds like a man dying of thirst, he strokes the fire growing in his belly. Cullen reaches to take off his glasses, but Dorian stops his hand.

“No, no, leave them on. I like them,” Dorian grins, kissing the inside of Cullen’s wrist. “I want to make you feel good,” Dorian murmurs against Cullen’s hip. “Do you want me to?” he asks, flickering his eyes upward. Cullen responds with a rather positive twitch of his hips, and Dorian gladly works open the zipper of his jeans to slip down around Cullen’s knees. He nuzzles the coarse hair as he takes Cullen’s half-hard cock in hand, giving it a few tentative strokes. Cullen bucks upward, body flushing with arousal across his pale skin.

“Maker, please,” he moans, Dorian’s thumb sliding over the sensitive head of his hardening cock, spreading the beginnings of precome. “Dorian,” he most certainly whines, and the dark haired boy can’t stop smiling, watching his best friend, his boyfriend, stripped to this-- to something so vulnerable and bare and fucking beautiful. He writhes under Dorian’s touches with such ease and grace, and after a few more strokes, he takes Cullen into his mouth without any warning. He suckles at the head, swirling his tongue slowly before taking in more, gripping the blond’s erratic hips. Where he can’t reach with his mouth, Dorian strokes with his hand, keeping the momentum steady. He feels his own cock straining against his jeans, but right now Cullen has all his attention. He always has.

Every noise and every gasp is a source of pride for Dorian, a small, joyous celebration that makes his heart ache in the best way possible because, Maker, he loves this boy. And against all of Dorian’s shitty odds, he loves Dorian back.

Cullen grips at Dorian’s hair with a shy hand, and Dorian pulls off his cock to look him the eyes, nodding, telling him without words he can grip harder if he so chooses. Cullen swallows, skin blotchy with blush and eyes dark with lust. He nods back and clenches harder as Dorian dips back down to lave at his cock with his tongue.

He reaches a hand to Cullen’s balls, playing with them with careful hadns. They tighten as he nears orgasm and soon Cullen’s hips are twisting and thrashing on the bed as Dorian’s head bobs faster, fingers still moving tortuously over his balls.

“Dorian… I’m going to--” he inhales sharp through clenched teeth, and Dorian pulls away at the last second, Cullen’s cum spurting onto his face, a thick rope of it streaking from his lip to his cheek. Dorian reflexively sticks his tongue out to lick it, smiling at Cullen who watches him with a heaving chest and starry eyes.

“Never let it be said you don’t have great aim,” Dorian teases.

“I’m so sorry,” Cullen says, reaching up to pull Dorian down, kissing him hungrily. Never let it be said that Cullen will cease surprising Dorian. As he’s kissing him, his mouth strays across Dorian’s face, lapping tentatively at his own cum before licking it off Dorian’s face, cleaning him before switching their positions and stripping him of his jeans and boxers.

“Bitter,” Cullen comments offhandedly.

Dorian lays prone under the blond, suddenly very aware of his cock bobbing against his stomach, leaking freely with precome.

“My turn,” Cullen says, voice hoarse. He trails surprisingly gentle hands down Dorian’s sides, and the dark haired boy shivers under the touch.

“You don’t have to,” Dorian says. He takes in the sight of Cullen, chest heaving from just moments before, and Cullen kisses him softly. Slowly.

“I want to.”

Dorian shivers at the sincerity in those words.

Cullen takes him into his mouth, warm and slick and tight as he sucks in a breath around Dorian’s cock. His whole body trembles as Cullen moves tentatively around Dorian’s cock; inexperienced and nervous and entirely lacking technique, but somehow Dorian only finds it even more arousing. Cullen holds his hips loosely, so most of the effort on keeping them down falls to Dorian so he doesn’t end up choking the poor boy.

But, Maker, watching the head of golden curls bob around between his legs is enough to bring Dorian to a delicious orgasm far sooner than he’d expected. He’s vaguely aware of his mouth moving, words falling from it, a whine escaping through clenched teeth, but Cullen keeps on steadily like a soldier marching into battlefield. Thumbs rub in circles at his waist and Dorian sucks in a breath, hears himself say over and over like a litany, “I love you I love you I love you,” eyes shut tight before a warning tumbles from his mouth.

Cullen pulls back and finishes Dorian with his hand, pressing his lips to the inside of his thighs instead. He feels the warm splatter of cum against his stomach as the breathless impact of an orgasm pulses through him, winding down to the sensation of Cullen’s palm wrapped around his sensitive cock. Dorian goes boneless as Cullen collapses beside him, smiling against Dorian’s shoulder with a lazy euphoria. He reaches slowly for a handful of tissues beside the bed and wipes Dorian’s stomach up.

“What a gentleman,” Dorian huffs.

“Well I was set on dinner first, then coming back here.”

“You know just as well as I do that we couldn’t risk that. People are popping in and out of your house all day,” Dorian says. He’s grateful for the way Cullen doesn’t press that they go over to his place, instead pressing kisses along his neck.

Dorian, despite his luxurious lifestyle and wealthy family background, feels positively spoiled for the first time in his life.

 

\---

 

 **MagnateMage:** Hey there ; )

 

 **CosimosLions:** Dorian youre right next to me

 

 **MagnateMage:** What? I can’t say hi?

 

 **CosimosLions:** ………

 

 **MagnateMage:** Yet you type ellipses when you could just glare at my beautiful face in  

person.

 

 **CosimosLions:** I will kick you off of this server

 

 **MagnateMage:** No you won’t

 

**[Player MagnateMage has been removed from this server for inappropriate conduct]**

  
Dorian nearly shoves Cullen off the bed with a cry, but he figures it’s worth it simply for the petulant look Dorian’s face. (And, well, he might have to pepper in a few kisses to get Dorian speaking to him again, but it’s not as if that’s much of a chore, is it?)


End file.
